


All These Things I've Done

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark Past, F/M, Gaby reads about Illya's Past, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Post-Movie(s), Slow Burn, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months after Rome, the trio is sent to Madrid for another chance at success when Gaby gets pulled aside to learn about the person she calls her comrade. Seeing Illya in a whole new light she has to make a decision, to stay in the game or get out alive. </p><p>Original Prompt: Imagine Gaby reading Illya's blacked out history and learning what terrible things he's done in the past for his "Russia."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude To Darkness

“No, no. It is ‘ya’ not ‘ye’ --” Illya’s lips are close to her own. They’re on what feels like their hundredth language lesson. The ones that Illya insists he teaches while she learns. Gaby is learning slowly but surely. Russian is not exactly like German. The words are a bit more harsh but it’s always fun to see him get flustered when she butchers the language on purpose. She likes the way his cheeks flush and how his brows furrow as she says something wrong. Then he corrects her with a slower pronunciation softly whispered against her lips. 

“I said it right.” Gaby insists, rolling her brown eyes as she leaned back against the hotel couch. They’re in a chic hotel in the middle of the tourist side of Madrid, playing husband and wife this time. The windows to the suite are open with the drapes floating in and out with the soft breeze of the early night. Gaby’s legs are drawn up onto the couch with her skirt pulled over her knees and her elbow against the back cushions as she faces Illya. He’s out of his jacket, thick dark sweater on despite the heat and his normally tidy hair is slightly messy from his fingers raking through it. 

“No, completely wrong.” Illya’s lips move up in that sort of smile he does when it’s only the two of them alone. When Napoleon is away the world seems a whole lot quieter for the Russian agent and the small mechanic. Gaby’s lips are laced with the scent of vodka as she pulls away from his gaze and moves for the tumbler on the table. 

“No, completely right.” Gaby teases him as she picks up the glass and finishes it off with a quick swallow. The clear liquid burns down her throat and she feels the courage that comes with it as she sets the tumbler back down, facing Illya once more. Her knees brush his and her head turns up to take in his handsome face. Eight months ago they met in a dress shop outside of West Berlin and from there they went to Rome where he played her doting fiance, ring and all. Gaby still had the ring. It stayed on her left finger, constantly sending a signal to Illya of her whereabouts. On some level it gave her a sense of security and on another one, it reminded her that he had forgiven her for her lying and outting him to the Vincinguerra’s and their staff. 

Illya cleared his throat, blue gaze slipping down to hers and tracing along the soft details of her face, from her thick lashes down to the tip of her button nose. “Try again,” He pleads almost silently knowing she can hear him in the close proximity. 

“Ya khochu domoy…” Her lips form the words slowly when Illya reaches up and he gently brushes the edges of his calloused fingers along her jawline, fingers pausing along the bottom edge of her lips. His thumb brushed along her bottom lip slowly and it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Gaby’s heart thunders against her chest, pulse picking up as she lets her eyes meet his. 

“Da, da.” Illya approves of her words and his thumb carefully slips down to her chin, keeping her head up. Gaby can’t take it much more. She lets all the vodka in her belly do the talking as she leans up on the couch cushion and doesn’t let anyone interrupt them this time. Before the phone can ring, before Napoleon can break in with some sort of excuse to soak up their time, Gaby goes in for the kill. She lets her lips crash into his. Illya’s mouth opens in a sort of surprise before he falls into her spell. Eight months she’d been waiting for this, ever since their near misses in Rome. The kiss is soft and gentle. There’s no clash of teeth or hurried hands. Illya’s lips press gently along hers, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of her lips along his own, with his hand slipping down along the column of her throat. From there he lets his hand smooth through her hair, fingers threading through the light curls there. Gaby lets off a soft sound and it takes every bit of his self control to not push her down onto the cushions. Gaby’s own hands slide up along his face and she lets her palms slip along his cheeks, tracing the edges of his jawline. She can feel the faint edge of scruff that’s starting to show itself. Tomorrow morning he’ll be up with the sun, shaving it away but Gaby takes the moment to appreciate just how human he feels as her lips ghost over his own, parting for just a moment and then she breaks from him. Slowly pulling back and letting her vision focus on him. He’s leaning over her, blond hair curling at his forehead and he’s looking at her like she’s the only person left in the world. 

“Illya,” She breathes out his name easily and smiles. She smiles wide. It’s bright and lights up her whole face, making him exhale softly as he mirrors her smile. His lips twitch up and he feels at peace for a moment. All the rage he contains is gone, dissipating as he feels her fingers curl along the back of his neck. 

“Chop shop girl,” He murmurs quietly as she leans forward and for a moment he thinks he’s going to get to kiss her again. Only it doesn’t happen, she buries her face along the crook of his neck and settles in against him, exhaling and going slack after a few minutes. She’s small against him and he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, lifting her carefully. It’s Rome all over again, holding onto her as he gathers her up. Her legs easily wrap around his middle and he carries her over to their shared bed. Being husband and wife on a mission -- they had to take the bigger room with the bigger bed. 

For the week she’s been taking the couch, but Illya won’t have it. He pulls back the covers with his free hand and gently lowers her down into the mattress carefully. This time he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t let her hand leave his as he settles down on the edge of the mattress. Her fingers are wrapped around his own for a moment and his thumb strokes over the top of her hand. Eventually he lets go and settles next to her on the bed. His hand curves around her middle and she rolls into his chest, hugging to him despite the warm air in hotel room. Illya’s fingers smooth through her hair, tangling through her curls as he lays his head down over hers. His cheek pressing against the crown of her head as he closes his eyes, wondering if she’ll still be there in the morning or even in a few years when she learns all the terrible things he’s done.


	2. Another Step Further

When Waverly calls her in off of a mission, Gaby knows something isn’t right. He has her meet him at his hotel across the block from the one where she and her two other teammates are staying for the duration of their mission. It’s been eight months since Rome, since they became a team and the three of them are still working out the kinks but they have gotten better. Or at least Gaby has with the help of Illya and Napoleon, both taking on supportive roles in her life. They teach her basic survival skills, how to pick a lock, and so on. She’s grasping the life of an agent rather well, becoming more and more relaxed around them – Illya especially. So when she makes her way to Waverly’s suite, she has no idea what’s awaiting her when he pushes the envelope across the small table, settling a decanter of amber liquid next to it but not quite touching it himself.

“What’s this?” Gaby asks as she moves into the hotel room, swiping her sunglasses away from her face and pushing them up into her thick hair. Madrid is sunny this time of year and sweat is already sliding down the back of her neck, but Gaby ignores it as she makes her way towards her superior officer. Her eyes sweep down along the thick padded envelope and across the tan paper she can read out the thick letters in the Russian language, the same style writing that Illya was currently teaching her.

“Ah, Ms. Teller.” Waverly starts with his charming tone, smoothing out any sort of waves before they even arise as he walks along the edge of the hotel table. His hand comes to rest on the envelope, pads of his fingers gently drumming over it before he sucks in a deep breath. Gaby can read the worry lines that are settling over his face, watching the way his mouth is set in a sort of grim line before he speaks again, keeping his eyes down before he meets her gaze. “I noticed and others have noticed as well your key placement alongside Mr. Kuryakin. It seems the two of your are quite close. Now I don’t need to lecture you on being close with others in the workplace. I’m sure you can figure out those details for yourself. Afterall you are an agent and professional. I don’t need assurance on that.”

He waves his hand but Gaby can feel the guilt sinking low in her stomach. It feels like she’s swallowed a ball of lead and that ball is now causing her insides to twist up and she wonders vaguely for a moment if Waverly knows more than he’s letting on. Of course he probably does. Waverly has eyes and ears everywhere. There’s a chance he knows that just the night before, Gaby had kissed her partner. It wasn’t for the mission either. It was during one of their Russian lessons and her mouth wouldn’t form the word just right. Illya had moved his hand, ever so gently around the curve of her jawline and had whispered the pronunciation against her lips. There was no interruptions last night. No phone call, no passing out on his shoulder – no Solo knocking on the door. Just his lips close to hers and Gaby went for the kill. It was the first bit of contact since Rome that didn’t have to do with a mission. Illya hadn’t stopped her and Gaby hadn’t pulled away, but that was well over twelve hours ago and still it had heat rising to her face. Gaby silently willed her blush to fade as Waverly cleared his throat, continuing on with his mission statement.

“After all Ms. Teller, you are by far one of my favorite agents. If I was to play favorites and I don’t.” He was back to charming with that English accent coating his words like fresh honey, “I just want you to know what you’re getting into before you get in too deep.”

Before Gaby can protest, before she can even deny anything about her and Illya’s relationship, Waverly is gone. The door to the hotel clicking shut behind him, leaving Gaby alone in the expensive suite. His hotel room is easily twice the size of the one she shades with Illya across the block and it looks more expensive, with a better stocked liquor cabinet. Waverly leaves her in the silence of the hotel room, alone with the envelop and the heavy ring on her left finger. She’s kept the engagement ring from Rome. Wearing it on this mission too, playing Illya’s wife as they investigate a ring of organ harvesting along the Spanish coastlines. He’s a Russian doctor looking for another surgeon to join his ‘practice’ while Solo plays a sickly-investor. Only they’ll have to continue their afternoon on the mission without her.

Gaby moves into one of the chairs around the table and picks up the edge of the padded envelope. It’s thick and practically bursting at the seams when she pries the small brass hook off of it, releasing a few of the papers. A few pieces of paper scatter across the table, but Gaby ignores them all as a photo slips out. It’s a black and white photo of Illya, he is slightly younger looking in the photo but his brilliant blue eyes are rimmed in darkness. His lip is split and his usually tidy hair is a mess. He looks ruthless in the photo, holding up a black and white sign with Russian lettering. It looks like a mug shot and she’s pretty sure that is exactly what it is as her brown eyes slip down to the paper under the photo. Half of the paper is blacked out with thick dark lines, she can read every other word even though most of it is in Russian there are a few lines in english. Every other line has a few details that are clear for her to read across the heavily photocopied paper. Her brows furrow downwards as she looks over the lines with her lips forming the words carefully. Violent outbursts, psychotic episodes, – bludgeoned to death. The words sink in as she repeats them and suddenly she feels sick but continues on.

KGB Training assessments, he’s scored top marks in everything from intellectual to physical. Her eyes slip down along the edge of the paper to a small section of interrogation. His score is off the charts. He is a professional when it comes to interrogation. His death count is high on paper, but when she thinks about it, there’s a chance these records are old. His death toll is probably much higher now. Gaby’s lips press tightly together, remembering the rain on the island just before Illya’s knife ran through Alexander Vinciguerra’s abdomen. Her stomach twists in knots and she feels the hot rush of bile along the back of her throat.

There is no way the man on the paper is the man she is currently ‘married’ to. Mission or not. She can’t imagine him interrogating anyone, but the idea slowly leaves her as she recalls the first time she saw him in East Berlin. He hadn’t hesitated in taking shots at them. He practically towered over her in the dress shop, making her knees shake. His presence alone was daunting and though he had been nothing but gentle with her, there was a whole other side to Illya. Like the three Italian boys in the men’s room back at the Vinciguerra party or the way he had lost control of his temper while they were being tested and robbed–losing his father’s watch. All those memories came back to her as she stood up from the chair, eyes stinging for a moment but she pushed back those feelings.

Gaby’s stomach plummeted as she reached for the decanter of liquor, completely forgoing a glass and drinking straight from the bottle. The amber liquid burning across her tongue, scorching the back of her throat as she swallowed it down. Her nerves were on fire, thoughts racing a million miles per hour. She had no way to put on the brakes either as she smoothed her hands over more papers. Most of the language was blacked out but she could still see the number of missions he accomplished, his excelling in fighting styles, and the high marks of his skill sets from other Russian agents.

Her stomach was filled with rich alcohol, setting everything in a blur as she threw her hands across the table once more, looking at more papers, more pictures. There were a few photos of bodies left behind on tables from what looked like extraction missions and Gaby’s knees went out. She missed the chair completely, crashing to the hotel floor, bringing the papers with her in a flurry.

More photos scattered around her and she was thankful for once that they were in black and white. If they had been in color, that would make the blood all the more real. Photos of bodies post interrogation were burned into her memory and she had to fight back another wave of nausea, picturing Illya doing all these things in the name of Russia. He had always commented on everything he did – better in Russia. Everything was better in Russia to him, and Gaby choked back a sob because even the violence was greater there.

It turns out the man she was kissing just hours ago, was not the man she thought him to be. Under that soft skin he showed her was something forged from nightmares. She reached up to the table and stole the bottle once more, taking another long pull of alcohol, trying to stop herself from shaking. Gaby didn’t want to read anymore but she kept going. She skimmed every scrap of paper that had fallen to the floor with her. The KGB’s best agent, entered so young and came out on top with the body count to prove it. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, fighting back the sting of tears. She never really knew him after all this time. Eight months after Rome she had fooled herself into thinking he was a good man. Maybe he was a good man, but after all of this he was a much better agent. He was much better suited for the KGB than he was giving Russian lessons and pretending to be her husband.

The door to the hotel opened a few hours later. Most of the amber liquid was gone from the bottle and all of the papers were now on the floor, spread out around her. Her shoes were off and her lips were parted but she didn’t dare look Waverly in the eye as she spoke to him, “Take me off the mission.” Her request was simple, words slurring as she spoke.

“Are you certain about this? I can have you on a plane to London in half an hour if that’s the case. We will send you elsewhere.”

Gaby finally turns her head up. She lets her eyes meet Waverly’s before her hands start twisting together for a moment wrenching off the little fake engagement ring. The one that sends a signal to Illya and drops it into the remaining bit of alcohol in the bottle. The ring sinks and then something fizzles and pops, the transmission going dead.

“I have never been more certain of anything. I’m ready to go now, please.”


	3. Taking Aim, Letting Go.

Gaby’s not in the hotel room when he gets back. In fact she hasn’t been around since she was pulled away from the middle of their lunch out, watching Solo play bait for their latest mission. Waverly is the one who pulls her so he never thought twice of it, but now she is not back. Solo is going to head to the party tonight in honor of Illya picking his latest surgeon for his new practice, all part of his undercover role. He’s a wealthy Russian doctor with a beautiful wife, who will not be joining him because why, he doesn’t know. He has no explanation for the questions that are sure to be asked and it throws a proverbial wrench in his plans. Illya paces along the edge of the hotel room, moving to collect his tuxedo for the evening but when he pulls open the hotel closet, there’s no sign of Gaby’s evening dress. There’s no sign of any of her clothes. They’re all gone. Every trace of her is gone. He didn’t notice all these things earlier and when he grabs his pack from under the bed his fingers are shaking. They’re alternating between shaking and tapping, his rhythmic tick starting to take over. The hotel room is silent as he holds his hand up, gazing to his fingers for just a moment. They keep shaking when he turns on the Russian made technology and no sound emits from her tracker. There’s no blip on any radar of her little false ring, he knows she wouldn’t take off. After all she hadn’t taken it off in eight months. Something twists in his stomach and he wonders if something on the mission has gone wrong. There’s been no sign of their covers blown. No SOS from Solo to retreat, but all of Gaby’s things are gone. 

There’s only the faint trace of her perfume on the pillow and a wet towel from her morning shower on the floor. 

Waverly has pulled her entirely from the mission. 

Illya’s eyes close and it takes every ounce of self control not to lose himself, but he does. The table lamp closest to the bed takes the brunt of his strength. It shatters along with the alarm clock along the wall and the sound of glass clattering to the floor is lost on him as he goes numb. Fingers shaking, nerves on fire, there’s only a red haze cutting into his clear vision. He’s angry and there’s no small calloused hands to hold his wrists down and stop him from throwing a table. He throws the table clear across the room and the wood splinters before he can get his hands on the decorative chair in the corner, snapping him from his spell. His chest is heaving and he can’t seem to find a grip on anything around him. His knees collide with the edge of the couch and Illya goes down. He kneels to the carpet first, hand spreading out along the soft fibers before he grips onto it. Knuckles turning white, he opens his mouth for a yell but nothing comes out. It’s all air leaving his lips, a quiet rage that fills the tension in the hotel room. 

The rest of the mission goes on without a hitch. Napoleon plays bait, the bad guys fall for it, and Illya gets to use his rage on a doctor who swears his organ stealing is for a greater good. They make it out with a few bumps and scrapes, Illya leaving with a new scar from a scalpel digging into his arm. None the less they are fine when the mission is over, fine but still down a man. Napoleon doesn’t bring up Gaby, he just brings up England and thoughts of returning to U.N.C.L.E. before America pulls him away again. Illya isn’t a fool. He knows the Cowboy is trying to convince him to visit their little mechanic, but he scoffs instead and pushes the notions aside for now as they make their way to the extraction point.

They reconvene with Waverly in London, checking back in with the newly stitched together agency. U.N.C.L.E. is still new and still working out the kinks. They’re only eight months in, but more teams like their own are emerging. When Waverly gives them the afternoon off, Illya takes it only for one reason. Only that reason is dashed when he makes his way across town. A few months ago, Gaby had bought an apartment. She had made the statement several times that she would never go back to East Berlin, or anywhere near there. She set her sights elsewhere, deciding to move where her work was as an entry level MI-6 agent. He had only seen the apartment once and it was right after she had purchased it, listening to her gush about her own place -- a sanctuary away from the rest of the violent world. There had only been boxes when he saw it months ago, just a few boxes. She had little more than that. It was nothing but tools and a few clothes Illya had picked out for her, there was nothing for furniture. They ordered dinner and sat on the floor together in her would-be kitchen to eat. That had been months ago. Too long ago, but the memory was still fresh in his mind like their kiss a few days prior. Her lips were still burned against his own. He could feel them ghosting over his when he laid down at night, pretending to sleep to make the night seem shorter. 

The little flat is empty when he gets there. Truly empty as he picks the lock and walks inside, intending to surprise her. He was hoping for something that didn’t exist, deluded himself into believing he could have something that wasn’t controlled by handlers. His footsteps echo along the wood floors. There’s nothing but blank walls with outlines where pictures must have hung, the floor has been swept clean and there’s no sign of life inside the little London flat. For a moment he contemplates running through every room, picking it apart for any signs of life. He doesn’t do it though. Illya stands rooted to the center of her living room. Taking in all the bare walls and edges, remembering coming with her to unpack her much of nothing. 

When he turns his attention to the left, he spies the kitchen and remembers sitting with his legs outstretched around hers on the floor. They had takeout from a parisian restaurant a few doors down, where Gaby ended up forgoing all of her food and heading straight for the three-tier cake slice that was for dessert. She had been buzzed on sugar that night. Sugar and vodka was smeared across her lips as she danced along the edge of the kitchen and living room, radio on high and he sat back just to watch her. He could still see the ghost of them sitting there, enjoying themselves. 

He doesn’t move for what feels like an eternity.

His joints start to ache by the time he finally moves out of the flat. He locks the door behind him and escapes the empty flat, leaving the ghosts behind. Illya Kuryakin has no need for ghosts in his life. If he lingers on the ghosts, his world would stay forever dark. 

Illya leaves the flat with a quick pace, his footsteps echoing off of the wall as he does so, fingers clenching together in uniformed fists. He leaves behind the ghosts, he leaves behind the memory of her lips on his.

 

\---

Gaby is sent to France where she ends up on the wrong side of the highway, flooring the pedal in her stolen car. Her clutch is nearly burned out and her foot mashed to the floor board with no inch to spare. There’s a black van careening next to her and when she pulls the emergency brake, she knows what could happen if gravity takes it’s toll. At the speeds they’re traveling, the back end of her car hits the van and they go tumbling over the side of the ridge. The van plunges down the side of the jagged rocks with the sound of metal peeling off it’s frames. The stolen weapons in the back of the van are obliterated when it hits the bottom of the riverbed. The water runs red and black with a mix of oil and gas floating along the top of the water. 

Her car is totaled. Her arm is broken in two places, she finds this out when Waverly sends in the extraction team. They pull her from the wreckage and the rest of her hard work is covered up from the public. The arms dealers are considered casualties of peace and Gaby is awarded six weeks vacation to heal up. Gaby requests somewhere warm and they send her to the beaches of Greece. She soaks up more sun than she ever has in her life. Her skin a deep golden brown by the time she starts to go stir-crazy. She walks up and down beaches with crystal clear water, collects shells digging her fingers deep into soft sand to find beautiful broken pieces. The money she has saved up is going to waste. She only buys junk food and clear alcohol to live off of while she sleeps in past noon and forgets the world around her. The life of an agent is much of a life at all. This is the first time since Spain she’s had time to think. 

Time to think about all she left behind. Her thoughts linger on the burning kiss she shared with her Russian comrade. The sensation of his fingers tracing the line of her face and how it felt to feel him respond to her. It had been a complete change from man she had met in Berlin, racing alongside her with a predatory look in his eyes, towering over her and staring down the bridge of his nose to her. The memory of him make something inside of her ache. Gaby can’t explain it as she rolls across the hotel bed. Her legs tangle in the expensive sheets and she wonders when he’ll come looking for her. If he ever will. If he can ever atone for all those reports in that envelope. 

The photos are still fresh in her thoughts when she closes her eyes and buries her face in the pillow. She can still see the mangled bodies, the nails pulled fresh from their beds of the enemies hands. The same thing they would do to her if they had caught her back in East Berlin. Part of her thankful for Napoleon and the other half of her angry that she had been some sort of pawn in a game much bigger than her own life.

They take her cast off when she makes it back to London. She ends up giving Waverly a tacky little jar of sand from the beaches of Greece, he puts it on his desk only when she’s around and in exchange gives up a thick padded envelope. It’s her next mission and it’s almost more than she could ever hope handle. When her brown eyes case the envelope, she glances up to Waverly who is watching her like a hawk. 

With a newly healed arm and a fresh tan, they’re sending her to Berlin.

What part of Berlin, it doesn’t say just yet. 

Her stomach is filled with lead and she feels the twist in her gut. The familiar sense of dread overcoming her as she takes a half step back. Her feet are sinking into the plush carpet that covers Waverly’s office when she backs into a warm solid wall. 

“We’ll be sending you with back up of course,” Waverly’s polite tone distracts her only for a moment as she glances behind her. She’s half-expecting to see her Russian comrade there. Only it’s not him and she’s happily filled with relief as Solo’s face comes into focus. 

“Naturally.” Gaby answers sharply, letting her gaze linger on Napoleon’s bright baby blues. He’s looking at her like he knows all her secrets and Gaby can’t help but think, maybe he does. Maybe U.N.C.L.E. has a file on her that matches that of Illya’s file. Maybe it’s filled with her past, black and white photos of a girl who used to dance on stage, who used to smile carelessly. Maybe they pass it around between the agents who work with her -- she’ll be their open book. Part of her feels like turning around and saying she doesn’t need back up but it’s so nice to see Solo again. After nearly two months apart, it’s like seeing a very handsome ghost. She accepts her mission and spends the night in Napoleon’s hotel room.

They’re drinking. Catching up. He doesn’t ask why she left and she doesn’t tell him. Their glasses clink together as the rest of the whiskey is poured between the two of them. Napoleon’s cheeks are flushed and he’s talking about his latest conquest. How the woman was loaded down with diamonds and pearls that she’ll never miss. He had been sent back to America after Spain, to socialize freely with a Canadian ambassador and her husband who liked to gamble a little too freely. He goes on and on while Gaby turns the radio dial in and out of static filled stations. 

She lands on one with a good beat and drains her tumbler. Fingers numb and legs wanting to move, she stretches a hand out to Napoleon who takes it and gives her an overdramatic low bow. They dance, clumsily with drunken grins and Gaby lays her head on his chest halfway through, snuggling into his expensive suit. He smells divine with something crisp and clean, just how he looks. All American boy with his arms looped around her. His hands not moving from the small of her back, ever so gentleman-like. If she were any other woman, her dress would be gone and they wouldn’t be dancing in the living room of his suite. They would be dancing in the sheets, but there’s some bond between them that’s stronger than that. Napoleon’s head slumps at some point during the song and he buries his nose against the crown of her dark hair. 

“He went looking for you.” 

Napoleon speaks against her hair softly and they don’t pause their steps. They still move slowly, back and forth together with her feet between his. Gaby doesn’t answer him just yet, but her eyes fly open at the mention of their Russian partner and swallows softly. Her throat is suddenly dry and she doesn’t know if there’s enough alcohol in the hotel to quench her thirst. 

“He didn’t find me.” Gaby finally states as the song on the radio dies down slowly, a burst of static filling the air before something slow is put on. The radio draws a slow song in easybeats across the two of them, “If he really wanted to, he could.”

Napoleon goes quiet for a moment as they continue to do their small shifting back and forth. His nose takes a quick inhale of something sharp and metallic, Gaby has edges that can cut the best of men into pieces and part of her is right. If Peril really wanted to find her, he could have. He’s never met a man quite like their partner, if Illya can even be called a man. Napoleon’s thoughts linger on the way Illya ripped the trunk off of the car and threw it like it was nothing, he’s not often surprised by people but Illya is an enigma to him, “I have no doubt.” 

They end up in bed. Fully dressed with Gaby curled into Napoleon like a stray cat looking for warmth. His hands are nothing but friendly, they don’t peel away her dress or skim across her skin. They stay rooted around her waist and keep her anchored to the bed. Keeping her free of nightmares, he settles himself behind her and inhales the lingering scent of motor oil. There’s something comforting in the way they fit together. Maybe in another life, he was a great husband with a good job and house full of kids, but in this one he’s a thief with very talented fingers. Gaby still loves him though, in their own crooked way they are great at being who they needed to be rather than who they were born. Napoleon’s warmth gives her a sense of sanctuary, warning off the nightmares. 

When Gaby wakes up, he’s gone but there is a tall glass of water on the side table with two aspirins. She forgoes the medicine and swallows down most of the water, padding out of the bed and across the suite towards the smell of breakfast. Napoleon has cooked and already handled most of the dishes. There's a platter of food for a plate left for her along with a folder for their mission. Gaby hooks herself down into a seat and pulls up a fork to stab at the eggs that are rapidly cooling. Shoveling them in her mouth she idly flips through the folder. They’re headed to West Berlin. A fact that almost makes her stop chewing entirely as her brown eyes skim across the page. There’s a few blacked out lines but underneath is a small font printed up. They’re investigating the Russians and potential information smuggling across the wall. Gaby’s stomach seizes up almost entirely as she manages to swallow down some of her breakfast. Napoleon and her are going as husband and wife, she is to be his ‘translator’ for the mission. 

The mission is too close to the wall for her comfort. She swore over and over in Rome that she would never go back and here were her orders. They were clear as day, typed out on professional paper that she would return to that nightmare for the greater good. Gaby flipped through a few more papers, contemplating skipping this mission when the bathroom door across the suite opened. Steam billowed out of the bathroom and Napoleon strolled out in a hotel robe with his dark hair soaking wet, clinging to his forehead. He took in the folder in her hands and the uneaten food on the table.

“We don’t have to go, you know.” Napoleon speaks up, not letting the weight of the mission drag his spirits down as he reaches over the table and drops something down in front of her plate. It’s a small box, dark in color and covered in a soft velvet cloth. Gaby exhales while swinging her gaze up to meet his with a fine brow raised. “Don’t worry it isn’t like Peril’s,” He reaches past her and opens the box, “See, bug free.”

It’s a simple gold band with a small simple cut diamond. Gaby bites back any surprise she has and settles back into her seat with a leg propped up on the edge of her seat, “Just the way I like it.” 

 

\---

He hasn’t been back to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in weeks. He’s returned to his motherland. After his last mission in Spain he welcomes the cold biting weather and is greeted with even colder remarks. They want all the information he has on U.N.C.L.E of course. They want to know everything about his partners, they want to know their intel, their little fragile cracks and where to hit them to make those cracks shatter like glass. He gives them information, but not easily.

Illya’s nose is broken. The delicate bones are shattered and blood runs down the front of his lips before he gives up the first piece of information, all in the name of Russia. They remind him so many more times how much he means to Russia, how all his past can be forgotten if he fights for the red cause. Illya fights and loses. When they’re certain he’s given them all, they let him return to the KGB but not alone. He’s watched constantly. His motions constantly recorded. They taunt him with harsh words of loving an American and German criminal. Illya never once falters. He isn’t left alone for weeks and even then, he knows they’re close by. When the new mission lands on his lap, he knows they’ll be watching.

It’s not a mission for U.N.C.L.E. 

It’s a mission for his motherland. There’s a mole on the inside of the Iron Curtain. One who has a strong tie to the outside, one who smuggles goods and information across the walls. They do the impossible, for a heavy price. Either way Russian secrets are being traded for military plans and the KGB need to tie up loose lines. This is Illya’s chance to clear up his clouded past. This is his chance to be forgiven for going into U.N.C.L.E. and coming out soft hearted. 

They send him to East Berlin, stationed out at checkpoint number three. He’s to do intelligence work at first, force only if necessary. From there his mission will be up to him but all in all the objective is the same as it always is. He is to take out the mole, tongue and all. 

Illya makes it East Berlin in record time. The weather is starting to get cold. He can see his breath come out in heavy clouds despite his even breathing. He’s liking this mission less and less each day as cars roam in and out of the check point. Each one searched. Each person questioned. There are no patterns of secret language going back and forth, no signals across the walls. He doesn’t sleep much. The nights are long and his lips can’t remember what the little mechanic’s felt like anymore. He’s slowly losing himself in his work. Watching every suited member of society try their hand at cracking Russian code. It isn’t until the second week of his mission that he sees a familiar face.

A pale face in a dark suit with blue eyes, with a beautiful vision on his arm. 

Illya’s heart stops for a moment. It stutters in his chest and before he can pull his binoculars up, the familiar faces are gone. 

He rubs at his face, palms digging into his eyes as he chalks the vision up to sleep deprivation. He doesn’t see them again. He doesn’t see anything for days. He’s arrested several German businessmen. All of them sing like canaries under his pressure. None of them have military access. None of them are willing to die for a secret. The group of them are cowards and one by one, Illya lets them all go. It isn’t until the following dusk he finds a man carrying a heavy case. When Illya approaches him he runs.

The runners are always guilty.

\---

“I can not be this close to the wall,” Gaby soaks up her pride and breaks down. Her throat constricts and for a moment she plays with the wedding band on her finger. She feels a heavy sort of lump in her throat and swallows it down as her brown eyes cut across the bleak hotel room. Napoleon is cleaning a gun. The room is filled with the scent of metal and oil. She can see the gunpowder on his fingers as he works meticulously.

“I won’t let them keep you.” Napoleon assures her for the hundredth time. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s already said it, he’ll say it a thousand more times if it calms her nerves. He watches out of the corner of his eyes as she takes another drink and throws her head back, swallowing hard. Her little body is full of spirits and little food. He wonders how she survives because she hardly sleeps, even in bed with him, he can feel her awake. He can feel her body never quite settling down.

He wonders if this is what will break them.

Napoleon puts the gun back together with precision and then moves on to the next metal case which is twice as big as the last one. Gaby moves herself over to the couch, stretching her legs out for a moment as she contemplates laying down and closing her eyes, but she knows sleep will elude her like it has been for the last week. 

“What is that?” She asks carefully as he snaps open the silver case. It’s massive and inside is a gun, larger than anyone she’s ever seen.

“A prototype.” He answers her carefully, glancing up as he points to the rather large rifle, “Some friends of mine down at the CIA,” He adds so carefully with that smooth tone of his, “Have been working on a new form of Remmington.”

Solo gets his fingers down into the case and he lifts the gun up. It’s longer than his arms and darker than the night sky when all the stars are gone. It has a small scope on the top of it with a red lens and for someone who marvels at engines that purr, Gaby is quite taken with it. She blows out a low whistle, brows moving up her forehead as she moves her legs up off of the couch and stands. Gaby looks quite a sight when she takes the gun from him and stands up with it. In her little wool dress she stands with a decent stance of an amateur, holding the rifle and peering through the scope. 

She feels like she can see for miles with the little red lens. The gun is heavy, making her arms ache but this is a moment where she feels powerful. 

“Teach me to shoot it.” Gaby demands rather than asking.

“Of course.” Solo smiles and he pulls out the little stand for it, showing her the next box full of ammunition. 

It takes Gaby a little over a week to master the gun. It’s heavy against her and the recoil stings like hell, but she loves the power of it all. It’s a lot like a car, minus the engine. It needs to be cleaned and cared for, it needs respect and she gives it just that. She’s become an excellent shot in such a short time that even Solo is impressed with her. He makes a mental note to buy her one for Christmas, nixing jewelry off of the potential list of gifts.

\---

It’s snowing when things go sour. 

Napoleon lets it slip he can speak nearly perfect German. 

Russian alarms are sounded.

A man with a briefcase is running across the snow, attracting the attention of everyone with a gun in the five block radius. They’re on the East German side of the wall. They’re in a hotbed of enemy territory and if they get caught without their man, they’ll likely be sent back to Waverly in pine boxes. If they're lucky, they will be in one piece.

Gaby is sitting across a low-lying rooftop, freezing to death. Her fingers are frozen in their little black gloves and her all black outfit is covered in white flakes. The gun is stretched out before her on the roof, her body laying down over cold tiles as she squints through the lens. She can see Napoleon chasing the man clear across Russian territory and not far from Solo is police. Gaby takes a shot at them, not aiming to kill only to spook them. It works. Napoleon throws a hand up in the air as he runs for a thank you as he chases down the man with the military grade secrets. 

It’s unclear to her from this distance if the man is a friendly or not, but judging by the way Napoleon is shouting at him, he isn’t a friendly. There’s a getaway car in front of the building she’s perched atop of and it’s idling low for her to escape when Solo gets the mole. U.N.C.L.E. needs the mole alive and well, they want to cut him a deal. They want to pump him for all his secrets and from there, Gaby has no idea if he’ll have a job or a cozy jail cell. Either way the man has knowledge and they live in the era of knowledge being the greatest weapon to fear. 

She leans back down and presses her painted lips together, squinting through the lens. Her aim is set to the man running away from Solo but something catches her gaze. Not far from here, there’s a man running down a side road to collide with her partner. Gaby swings her gun down and takes aim. Her finger hovers above the trigger and she tenses just like Solo taught her. Only something stops her and her whole body goes rigid. 

In the red lens is the man she left in Spain. He’s tall, with long legs headed full speed for the alleyway. If he cuts across it, he’ll miss the mole and hit Solo dead on. 

Gaby can’t blow the mission. 

She takes aim and fires. 

The gun recoils and hits her hard in the shoulder. She doesn’t stop though. Gaby folds up the feet on the edge of the sniper rifle and slings it over her shoulders. She starts running now. Her boots crunch down along the snow as she skids off the edge of the low lying roof and stomps down hard into a bank of snow. She passes under a street light catching his gaze and her heartbeat skips then she feels the adrenaline pumping through her veins, urging her to her idling car.

\---

Illya’s boots are covered in slush when the bullet rips through his coat. It strikes him hard in the left shoulder and jerks him to a stop. His body is so full of adrenaline he almost doesn’t feel the pain against the cold air as he turns around. His blue eyes are scanning the world around him for a sign of anything and all he can see is a small woman running off the edge of a rooftop.

Her black dress is trailing behind her. Her small legs are stretched out and she’s got sun-kissed skin he can see reflecting off the snow. 

The pain strikes him right around the time he catches her face in a rogue street light. Gaby scales down the side of the building and for a moment he thinks, he is dreaming her up. The pain from the gunshot wound is excruciating but seeing her so close to the wall is just as painful. He thinks she’ll run to him when she watches him stumble to his knees. 

“Gaby,” Illya breathes out her name like it's a lifeline. His hand moves up and over to his shoulder holding pressure to it for a moment. He’s in a state of disbelief. He wasn’t certain he had seen her a few days ago, but now he’s more certain than ever. 

She doesn’t. Instead she slings that gun on the back of her shoulder and climbs into a running car he never saw idling on the sidewalk. The last vision he sees is her red painted lips, turning down into a frown, his name forming on her tongue when he collapses into the snow. The icy snow is comforting against his burning wound but Gaby never comes. The car speeds off and he’s left on the road like an animal. 

\---

They capture the mole. His name is Sergio Ivanhoff and he’s got both American and Russian secrets. He has news from the White House of plans of attack on the Iron Curtain. He’s got secrets of a possible atom bomb being recreated and he has more -- so much more than that. His tone is practically a gloat as Napoleon and Gaby escort him onto a private plane courtesy of U.N.C.L.E. At this rate they wonder if they should have left him to the Russians, but they’ve succeeded in their mission and what happens to Ivanhoff is not up to them.

Ivanhoff is asleep when Napoleon turns to her on the plane. She’s damp from the snow, her hair sticking to her face but she looks pale, even for her normally tan complexion. He wonders vaguely if she’s cold, if she needs to change and soak in a hot bath, but he completely skips over asking. Gaby is a grown woman and can take care of herself, so he goes right for the question of the night.

“Where did that extra shot go?” He asks pouring himself a drink as the plane reaches proper altitude. Before he can drink it though, Gaby’s hand snakes up and steals the plastic cup. She downs the drink before he can even pout his handsome face to her. 

“What shot?” She plays coy, completely wanting to avoid the question she knows he’s going to ask. Letting her eyes dart away, pretending to be uninterested in his question.

“I heard you fire twice.” Napoleon fills her plastic cup back up as she holds it out to him impatiently. He’s not an idiot, he knows the sound of that M40 over his small pistol with the silencer attached. Her gun made a loud noise, a deafening one over the snow filled Berlin.

Her bottom lip pokes out for a moment and trembles, like she’s remembering a bad dream that happened only minutes ago. “I shot him.” She breathed out the words almost effortlessly like they were sitting on the edge of her tongue the whole time, “I shot Illya.” 

Napoleon doesn’t bother with a glass. He lifts the bottle of whiskey and drinks straight from it. It’s a good minute or so of silence before he asks the inevitable question, “Did you kill him?” 

She sucks in a deep breath the kind that makes her shoulders shudder. She feels her world starting to go black at the edges, “It felt like it.” 

\---

Russian words are spilling all around him. Then he’s warm. He goes from being ice cold to being so warm he almost can’t breathe. There’s a sharp pain in his shoulder and he gets the glimpse of an infirmary before there’s white hot pain that engulfs him. A nurse digs the bullet out of him and it’s not the first time this has happened. It’s not a deep wound and it won’t slow him down. They clean the wound and bandage him up. He’s expected for duty in three days.

The slug they pulled from him is American made, crafted with poor metals. Bullets in Russia are better.

He doesn’t get to keep it.

He does however get to keep the image of the woman who shot him.

He can still hear her voice when he closes his eyes, “...But you do want to wrestle?” 

He wakes up and she’s gone along with her voice.

\---

Gaby drinks herself into a slumber. She is curled up on the plane across Solo’s lap, using him as a foot rest with her head on an armrest for a pillow. She is cold, curled up into a small ball and sleeping soundly as Waverly discusses dropping Ivanhoff with MI-6 and U.N.C.L.E. personnel. Napoleon wakes her when they land in London and she asks to go home with him.

Home is a little hotel room on the edge of Wales. It’s got a fully stocked bar and Gaby lets Napoleon keep the gun. She doesn’t want to touch another one again. She can still feel the recoil in her shoulder from shooting the man she kissed and when she closes her eyes, she can see his shocked face turning to face her. It drives another drink down her throat and soon she can barely stand. 

Napoleon leads her to bed and takes the couch. He won’t enable her forever, but for now she can have the world if she wants. She just shot the man Napoleon was pretty sure before all this wasn’t capable of being anything other than a machine. According to Gaby he bled red like a man instead of the thick oil of a machine. 

When she wakes up there’s no glass of water to quench her thirst. There’s no sign of breakfast being made. Napoleon is gone and the room is hers for the week -- or so says the note that’s left on the bathroom mirror for her. She starts the morning moping but ends up shopping. She buys a new dress, she buys new sunglasses and hides behind them as she moves shop to shop. She picks up a newspaper and tries to skim the news but there’s nothing there of activity on the wall.

Waverly doesn’t call her in.

Napoleon doesn’t stop back by. She starts contemplating her world then. There’s a chance Illya died in the snow. Gaby doesn’t think about it though. She doesn’t think of the spray of crimson that cut through his jacket when she took the shot at him and she doesn’t think about the way he landed in the snow. She thinks about the little things, how she aimed left high instead of low. How the shot should have only scared him not snagged him. Gaby can go back and forth over the night in her head a million times, but she can’t change what has happened. 

Instead she drinks it away the best she can while pulling rental ads from the newspaper. She ends up finding several homes for sale in London but passes them all up. Homes are easy to invade. They’re hard to pack up and move. If she’s going to be an agent for the British she’ll need to be quick on her feet. Gaby takes a thick red marker and starts circling ads. 

Flats for rent all down near the central heart of London. They all have cute and cozy words that wrap around their cheap prices, listing them as best sellers. Gaby pays them no mind as she goes about her search. She sold her flat when she came home from Spain. She knew Illya would come for her and she couldn’t face him and that envelope that had been slid across the table at her. She could still see his victims when she closed her eyes. 

She could still see all the things he did for Russia and it made her insides churn and now she was no better. She had taken a shot at her own comrade for the greater good. Gaby’s grip on the marker tightens and she draws an ‘X’ across the newspaper before she balls it up and throws it towards the nearest trash can, completely missing it. 

Gaby pays for another week at the hotel and asks to move rooms. She wants one with a view and she keeps the curtains closed the whole time. She feels like she’s wasting away, eating very little and drinking too much. Her body can’t function without a strong drink and she supposes eventually she’ll have to quit, but for now her body belongs to her and no country. She is not a prisoner of East Berlin, just one of her own mind. 

When Waverly calls, it’s for a mission. Gaby moves her things into a storage unit and heads in for a new cover. Her fake wedding ring is still on her finger and she keeps it there when Waverly hands over her next mission. 

Much to her surprise, he’s bringing back the team. The two of them will reconvene in Cairo and Gaby’s heart catches in her throat as she skims over the folder. Her knees knock together and she wonders if the room is spinning or if she’s falling. The note mentions nothing of Illya but it says team. She assumes he means Solo and herself but the reservations are made for three and only three. Either way, Waverly’s hand clasps to her shoulder and shakes her. When Gaby finally pushes through the daze she manages to ask a simple question, “When do we leave?” 

 

\--- 

Cairo is dry and hot. It’s also breathtakingly beautiful and Gaby is smitten by the busy city the moment she steps off of the plane. Solo is already there and he greets her in a pale suit. His blue eyes are hidden behind thick sunglasses and he’s positively grinning at her like she’s worth a million dollars. As he steps for her, he pulls his arm around her back and tugged her into him. Gaby’s arms wind around his neck and she hugs him, the soft breeze of the desert land pulls up her sundress, exposing tan skin as she pulls back from him.

“My darling baby sister,” He coos loudly reaching up and pinching her cheek as he speaks making sure the world around them can hear everything, “I can not wait to meet this husband of yours!” 

Gaby’s stomach drops, “H-husband?” She whispers, confused for a moment as she glances at the gold band still on her left finger. It’s the one Napoleon had given her back in Berlin but this mission they’re not married. At least according to their file they’re not and Gaby is confused greatly until Napoleon wraps both arms around Gaby’s small form and he picks her up for a moment, spinning her around like they haven’t seen each other in years.

Her little sundress comes up and around her legs for a moment and she feels like smacking him hard along the back of his head. Only the sight of the blond man not far from the both of them causes all her thoughts to cease. Gaby feels like fainting, like the women do in the movies on the silver screen. They put their hands up to their foreheads and faint. She feels lightheaded and when Napoleon puts her down, she’s not certain she can hold herself up when their partner moves for them.

Napoleon backs away as Illya approaches and it’s Rome all over again. Gaby’s head tilts back as he towers over her, his hand reaches out and he grabs a hold of her left arm.

“We are married now,” He speaks with that thick accent of his, watching her with a look Gaby can’t quite place. He looks hurt. His brows are pulled together and his eyes look glassy like he could break down at any moment, but he doesn’t. Instead he lets his fingers run down the length of her arm and he takes her fingers in his. Illya pulls off Solo’s ring and before Gaby can protest, he pushes a new one onto her finger. He is very gentle about it but Gaby knows there’s probably enough anger in him to break her calloused fingers. 

This ring is heavy and real. It feels cool against her skin and when she finally tears her gaze away from his she looks down to see the little black pearl wrapped in diamonds. It’s heavy instead of hollow and she knows he can not track her with this, “Congratulations.” 

His tone is clipped and her heart stutters around in her chest for a moment before he lets go of her and their mission starts. Everything is not cut and dry anymore. There's no black and white lines to toe. Everything is gray and their dance together has only just begun. They dance around the mention of Berlin. They just exist around one another, skirting around personal space, trying not to draw attention to themselves, but they’re supposed to be married with Napoleon being the faithful brother-in-law in aiding Illya of his antiquities dealing. They’re looking for smugglers in ancient artifacts, but the two of them are far from their cover stories. Gaby’s looking at him while he’s looking down and when he glances at her, she’s always too far gone. 

It isn’t until the three of them are back in the hotel room that Solo makes the announcement, “We’re going to fail this mission!” He is insistent and he is right. The two of them can’t deny his words as he paces the front of the open suite. The windows are drawn shut and the room has been swept for bugs. It’s a double suite with fashionable furniture and connecting rooms. Gaby and Illya have a king size bed to share, but it doesn’t look like anyone will sleep tonight. Not as Solo paces back and forth with a half-empty tumbler in his hand, “All because of you two, dancing around some elephant in the room. Now, if you don’t mind. I’m going downstairs to the bar to find a lovely woman who’s going to tell me all about her historical knowledge of the Nile and I intend to drink it.” 

He throws back the rest of his tumbler and glares at the two of them before grabbing his suit jacket. Illya is looming over his chessboard, pretending to ignore the whole ordeal and Gaby is sitting on the couch like a teenager in trouble, knees pressed together and eyes cast down on the thick carpet. When the door slams shut, she jumps slightly but doesn’t say anything. Instead she gets up and moves for the small bar, instantly pulling out the first bottle she can find and forgoing a glass. The crystal stopper is pulled out and Gaby lets it hit the floor before pulling the bottle up to her lips and swallowing down a mouthful. The alcohol warms her throat and stomach, liquid courage is all she needs to turn and face him finally. 

“I didn’t know you would be here.” She states softly, in German knowing he can translate her words easily. 

Instead of acknowledging her with a glance, he simply moves a chess piece on that board of his. She can hear the little piece scrape along the wood and it irritates her nerves, “Did you not read file provided?” 

“I did,” Gaby’s teeth clench together, grinding slightly as she pulls the bottle up for another swig and takes a few extra sips to make the burn last on her tongue, “It didn’t mention you.”

“Well, here I am.” He doesn’t look up again and she can feel her irritation growing. He doesn’t ask her about Spain or Berlin. He probably has no idea of the missions she’s taken on since then or how much she doesn’t sleep without him in her bed. Part of her wants to yell at him for that file. Why did he have to go and do all those terrible things? 

For Russia.

For Russia of course. Illya loved Russia more than Gaby could ever fathom loving anything or anyone. 

“How did you like being married to Cowboy?” 

Illya’s question makes her pull the bottle away and Gaby freezes in place, half a step towards the bedroom, glancing over at him. He still won’t look at her. His blue eyes are still trained on his chess board and he’s moving his fingers over the pieces like a God picking who lives and who dies on the battlefield. 

“It was fine, his ring is pretty.” Gaby doesn’t dance around him or his feelings like they’re made of glass. She would rather tell him the brutal truth than let her tongue give him a bunch of lies again, like she had done their first mission. It was the truth though, Solo’s ring had been pretty and real. She was also certain he had stolen it, but it didn’t matter to Gaby. She kept it because she loved it. It reminded her of a sense of home when she was away, driving off ravines in France and anywhere else U.N.C.L.E. sent her. 

“My ring better.” Illya doesn’t say it like a question.

“I broke your ring.” She mutters with a bit of venom sinking into her words as she takes another sip of the alcohol and tilts her head back, letting her brown hair fall along her shoulders, “I drop it into very expensive scotch in Spain after I read your file.” 

Illya’s fingers pause but he doesn’t look up at her and it’s infuriating. She deserves his respect, but he won’t give it to her, “Fair, you shot me.”

Gaby takes another drink and her voice gets louder, “You were going to blow my mission.”

“Wrong, I was going to save you and Cowboy’s mission.” Illya corrects her like a teacher reprimanding a student. His tone is all sharp and clipped, his voice bellowing against his chessboard. He is angry and she can see the tick in his fingers starting again. The slow tap, tap, tap, echoing in the silence of the room.

“Save me? Save us? We didn’t need saving. We needed out of your damn Curtain.” Gaby can feel the booze settling into her empty belly, making her tongue loose and thoughts even looser. She grips the bottle so tight, it’s a miracle it doesn’t break. “I shot you to survive.”

“And my file? I did those to survive.” Illya says and Gaby is so irate she storms towards him. Her footsteps are clumsy and heavy, but she walks to him and throws a hand out, knocking his chessboard aside. Pieces go everywhere and she’s livid, but so is he when he looks up at her. His blue eyes are sharp and cold. She shivers under his gaze and reaches down to touch him but Illya jerks away from her like she’s going to hurt him. 

The small gesture breaks her heart but the alcohol holds her together when he stands. Huffing against her, towering over her form. He forgets how small she is sometimes, she barely reaches his shoulder and while he wants nothing more than to make her lips cover his, he can’t bring himself to move, “I had to torture traitors, Gaby. Traitors to Russia, people who would do the same to me. Do you know what it is like to grow up under that shame?” Illya’s voice is low and harsh. 

Gaby’s eyes close but he reaches up and grabs on to her face. Both of his palms smooth over her cheeks and he is gentle but firm, holding her head up to make her look at him. Gaby finally opens her eyes, peering up at him through thick lashes and wonders vaguely for a moment if this is how they’ll always be, angry at each other. Illya’s tongue darts over his bottom lip but he doesn’t lean in just yet as he lets his fingers curl along her jaw like they did back in Spain. 

She does know what it feels like to grow up under the umbrella of shame.

“I had to do things for my country, for my family to live.” His words get so soft she can barely hear them. His hands feel hot on her face and she wonders if he’ll ever forgive her for running away. His palm smooths down the column of her throat and he pulls her up and closer to him, “I had to kill to survive. Just like you shot to accomplish your mission.” And with that he’s leaning down, cutting off any reply she has for him. There’s no use in asking for permission because as soon as his lips cover hers, she’s kissing him back.

There’s been a dull ache in her chest since she left him in Spain and now it’s slowly ebbing away. This kiss doesn’t fix everything though. There’s still so much weighing between them, but his mouth is something she’s been missing for months. She had forgotten how his lips had felt on hers and here he was kissing her all over again. Her toes curl in her shoes and she’s holding to him for a moment. She’s still angry with him. She’s still scared of him and his past, but she gets pieces of him now. Gaby kisses him back until they’re both breathless and his forehead crashes down over hers, the bottle slips from her hand and falls to the floor, spilling out under them as he lifts her up. 

“I never wanted you to see that.” Illya explains quietly against her mouth. His hands are on the back of her thighs, fingers leaving an impression on her as he holds to her tightly. Tomorrow she’ll have bruises and maybe tomorrow she will care, but for now Gaby doesn’t bother with any of it. She reaches up and winds her hands around his neck, her fingers stroke along his blond hair and she nods to his words. It was probably true, he was such a private person, Gaby was lucky to know everything she already knew about him. Getting anything from Illya is a feature in itself, but she knows he would have never spoken of the horrors she found in that that envelope. 

“You could do that to me.” She confesses remembering the night in Berlin so many months ago, their first time meeting when Napoleon warned her what the Russians would do if they caught her. Napoleon’s urgent voice echoed in her thoughts.

“You could spend the night with the Russians tied to a water pipe while they remove your nails.” 

“No,” Illya says abruptly breaking any sort of illusion Gaby had of him as he moves her towards the wall covered in art-deco prints. He presses her back against the cool wall and holds her there tightly, letting her legs wrap around him so he can press closer to her. They fit together like pieces of an old puzzle, long lost and forgotten, “No, I would never. I could never hurt you.” 

It was the truth spilling from his mouth which is so close to her own. He couldn’t hurt her. Even back in Rome when he felt the pang of betrayal, shouting at Napoleon how things weren’t the same between them. He held Gaby above the rest of the world and she held him in the palm of her hand without even realizing it. Two broken people don’t make a whole, Gaby knows this but she doesn’t stop herself from kissing him again. Her lips capture his and they are a mess of hands. Gaby grabbing onto the skin along the back of his neck, her nails trailing down the column of his throat, leaving red lines in her wake as she grabs onto his shoulders. Her nails dig deep into his navy shirt, pulling at it and they keep a tight grip on him as his hands slide up her thighs. He ignites embers along her flesh, trailing his lips from hers to the corner of her mouth and down along the expanse of her jawline. His teeth nip at her soft flesh, pulling at the soft skin and leaving behind angry red marks.

They are not kind to one another at first. They are a series of bites and scratches, hard kisses that bruise lips. Somewhere along the wall, Gaby feels the first sob pull from her chest. She’s missed Illya and his hands that trace along the line of her hips and how easily he holds her up, like she weighs practically nothing. Gaby cares for him more than she lets on, she’s been fooling herself for months now. When the sob leaves her lips, Illya pulls away from the crook of her neck. His lips press to her cheek, turning her head up with his own as his fingers slow their movements.

“Gaby,” Her name sounds foreign on his lips and she doesn’t like how hushed his tone is. It draws another sob from her throat and she buries her head down against his shoulder, fingers shaking as she grips onto him like he’s the last person she’ll ever hold. 

“Don’t,” Gaby breathes past a sob, her voice wavers but she holds off another wave of emotion as she buries her nose down against the dark fabric of his shirt. His hands slip from her waist, tracing lines up along her slender sides and he moves his palm over her thick hair in a soothing motion. Without any warning the wall against her back is gone and he’s carrying her along the outline of the hotel room. Her legs are still wrapped around his waist and her dress is a wrinkled mess between them. Illya is all business, his raw anger seems to be dissipating away as he carries the small woman towards the king sized bed. He sets her down and kneels by the edge of the mattress, letting her hand span out across the top of the cover. Her fingers seek his out and she takes a hold of his hand. Her fingers loop along his and she squeezes softly holding to him, afraid he’ll leave if she closes her tear-stained lashes. 

Illya’s other hand moves up and starts along her bangs, pushing the hair from her eyes and letting his calloused palm slide along her red cheek. Gaby heaves a soft sigh and he can’t help but watch the way her shoulders sag in to the mattress. She’s full of so much anger for such a small person and he wants to take it all away from her, apologize for his way but, there is no changing the past. He’s tried after all, living in the shame of his father and the reputation of his mother. He’s done everything they could ever ask of him and it’s still never enough. The rage is a slow building disease and it will always linger. This he has come to know and accept, but he doesn’t want that for Gaby. He doesn’t want it for the woman who has somehow worked herself into his heart. 

When her shoulders ceased their shaking he moved from his place on the floor and climbed carefully over her. His long legs catching hers and holding her back, flush against his chest. Her head easily tucked under his own and she buried herself down against the comfort of him. They can’t stay like this forever and they know that, but for now this is too good to let go. Illya’s hands cover hers and he curls around her in a protective stance with his back to the door of the hotel room, fingers brushing easy little patterns against the back of her hands and slowly stroking up her arms where chill bumps raise. She falls asleep first, breath slow and even against his chest, eventually turning herself in and letting her fingers grip onto his shirt. Illya doesn’t sleep just yet. He lets his hands smooth over the edges of her waist, pushing her sundress back down her legs, covering her up the best he can as if it’s going to keep her from getting hurt anymore. Eventually he settles into a light sleep, one that breaks when he feels her shifting against him. Gaby has only slept a few hours, two or maybe three. She's moving against him in that slow languid way that starts the fire inside of him.

It’s not bright out yet, there’s no sun filtering through the curtains and Illya is wide awake when her lips press to his throat. They’re soft and burn into his skin. She traces a line a line down along his throat and her fingers skim along the edges of his shirt, down over his stomach feeling the muscles twitch against her fingertips. Illya doesn’t let her know that he’s awake yet, he just lets her fingers pull at the edges of his shirt and skim against his warm skin. When her head turns up to his, he meets her gaze and even in the dark room he can see the faint trace of tear tracks on her cheeks. It doesn’t stop either of them though when he leans down and catches her in a kiss. It’s a lot less violent than the one from earlier. 

His mouth moves along hers slowly and she feels his tongue slip along her bottom lip and everything else is a warm blur. His lips press along her bottom lip, nipping at it before he moves along. His mouth trailing from the edge of hers to the line of her jaw. Gaby’s throat constricts and she swallows hard as he places an open mouth kiss to the front of her throat, dragging a moan from her. Illya moves his hands over from her hip up to her shoulder where he pushes her back against the hotel bed as his legs slip against hers. 

They fit together once more, Gaby’s small hips pressing into his as he lays between her thighs, holding her down to the mattress. Her hands pull at his shirt and pulls it out of where it’s tucked in his pants. She pulls impatiently at the buttons and it almost draws a laugh from him at her little frustrated growl. There’s nothing between them except hurried breathing and soft kisses. He kissed her forehead first and then moved his lips to her temple while her fingers pulled at buttons. She broke two of them pushing his shirt off of his arms, fingers tracing over his chest. He holds his breath as her palm skims over his skin, taking in all the scars he had mapped along his flesh. His lips part against her cheek, breathing softly against her as he closes his eyes, waiting on her to pull her hand back in horror. She doesn’t though. Gaby’s fingers map from chest to his shoulder where she had shot him. 

He winces for a moment out of habit and it doesn’t go unnoticed from her.

“I--,” Gaby starts softly but Illya cuts her off with his sharp accent.

“You did what you had to do.” 

His lips skim down her cheek and he kisses her hard. His hands slide down her shoulders and he pulls back the strap of the dress, breaking the kiss between them just to press his lips along her exposed shoulder. His teeth graze along the edge of her collarbone and he trails down to the edge of the fabric. Gaby’s back arches up and he takes advantage of it, hands smoothing along the back of her dress and tugging on the zipper. It slides down with ease as she reaches up to help him, pulling the dress up and off of her slender form. She throws it somewhere in the dark and Illya grabs a hold of her wrists as the dress leaves her fingertips and pulls them up to his lips. He kisses the tips of her fingers and then her palms. He smooths his lips to the inside of her wrists and then let them go just long enough to lean in and kiss her once more.

Her mouth is warm and soft but her hands are calloused and rough when she runs them down his chest, down along the line of his slacks. She pulls at his belt and the world melts away when he drags his lips down her chest, nipping at her flesh with sharp precision and he drags his tongue over each bite he makes. Gaby’s lips are parted in a soft sigh and her hands find his hair, fingers raking through the meticulously styled hair when he drags his tongue down along her naval. 

Illya’s weight is heavy on her legs but Gaby welcomes the feeling as his lips press along the edge of her hip bone and he draws his tongue in a long line down to the edge of her expensive lingerie he’s certain Solo has picked them out, because they match and they’re way too expensive for Gaby’s taste. The tip of his nose draws down the inside of her thigh and Gaby lets out a soft sigh, fingers scraping along his scalp as he hooks his fingers into the edge of her underwear and pulls them down along her tan legs. Gaby obliges him, kicking them off once they get to her ankle. His fingers trace a line up her leg and wherever his fingers stroke, those embers he started before are catching fire as Illya settles between her legs. Gaby’s hips jerk up the moment his mouth touches her and there’s a low moan pulling from her throat as his hands brace along her thighs holding her down against the mattress. Her breathing picks up when his tongue traces a line against her and the world is gone from Gaby’s grip. His fingers fan out along her legs and he picks her up by her hips. Gaby throws a leg over his shoulder and pulls him in closer with an impatient heel digging into his shoulder blade. He can only oblige her, slipping a hand from the span of her hips to where his tongue dances and she nearly shouts against his attention.

He builds her up and threatens to push her over the edge with the flat of his tongue dragging against her flesh. Gaby is a mess against him. Her head falls back against the pillows and she’s biting into her bottom lip to silence the shout that is clawing its way from her throat. She throws a hand over her own mouth and bites against the back of her hand before he crooks a finger inside of her and she careens over the edge. Gaby shudders against him and his mouth never slows, dragging his lips along her folds before he pulls back and presses a wet kiss to the inside of her thigh. Gaby’s breathing slows just long enough for him to trail his way back up her body. 

It’s slow and deliberate just to make her give off an impatient growl. He doesn’t give into her demands just yet. Illya takes his time like anyone would with a work of art. He traces faint lines and thick scars that could have healed better with proper care. He wants to ask her about one on her right side, frowning at the torn skin that was poorly sutured back together but his slow movements have pushed her limits enough. The little mechanic gives him an impatient sound and reaches down to pull at him.

She does just that, practically grabbing on to his upper arms to pull him up. He lets her pull him up and she leans up just to kiss his mouth in an urgent manner. Lips crashing together, Gaby doesn’t let him take his time. Her legs wrap around his waist and she pushes all her weight on to him to roll him over and he lets her. Illya lets Gaby have whatever she wants. Tomorrow in the light of the sun he will ask about her scars. He lets her kiss him, he kisses her back and lets her taste herself on his tongue. His hands smooth along the expanse of her back and he feels the faint scars from her new work as an agent in the field. Illya grips on to her hips and pulls her into him. Their lips meet again and Gaby bites his bottom lip in a none-too-gentle way that has him leaning up to her touch. Her palms smooth down over his chest and her nails dig down along the lines of his muscles. 

She can feel countless scars under her palms and marvels at the way each of them feel under her touch. This is a private moment that they’ll may never get again if they let the past get in the way. Illya’s hands smooth away from her legs and move to cover hers. He holds them down against his chest as his fingers wrap around her wrists. Gaby can feel the beating of his heart against his warm skin and she breaks their kiss. Brown eyes skimming down to their joined hands against his chest, she can see him in the early morning light that’s breaking through the curtains. She feels the tug against her heart strings, dragging her gaze up to his.

He is beautiful to her. Pale skin and pale hair with a gaze that never tears from her own. Something about the Russian man warms her heart and lulls her into thinking what they have can be real. 

Their eyes meet and Illya pulls on her wrists leaning up off of the bed to kiss her. His fingers trail up the expanse of her forearm and he traces the line up and around her shoulder, fingers smoothing through her hair. Illya’s mouth drags along her own as Gaby makes quick work of his belt and pants. His mouth ticks up into one of those smirks, marveling at how impatient she really is. She pushes them impatiently down his legs and he helps her kick them off. Illya pushes himself up into a seated position and he buries himself against her neck, dragging his mouth down along the edge of her collarbone. He sucks at the skin there, making a red mark as he groans at the feel of her bare hips rocking into his covered ones.

She smooths her palms down over sides and down to hook along the elastic waist of his briefs. She pulls at the fabric for a moment before pushing them down his legs. He pulls at her hips, tugging her in closer to him. Gaby’s chest brushes along his as he pulls her in close, mouth dragging down to the edge of her bra, marking another piece of her. Gaby tilts her head back and wraps her arms around him, palms smoothing over the back of his head as she raises her hips up and pushes closer to him, sliding her hips down over his own. Gaby’s lips parted with a sharp gasp as she sinks down onto him. Illya’s lips brushed along the curve of her breast with a sharp hiss as he rocks up against her. His fingers pull at her flesh, dig against the delicate skin to bruise and she holds to him like he’s the last of her humanity. 

He may as well be. 

His hands guide her hips down onto him harder and he wraps an arm around her back to push her down into the mattress, moving them with a sort of grace only a seasoned agent could have. His hips slam against her own, bruising the skin between them as she licks over her bottom lip. She arches her hips up into his own as her back settles against the mess of covers. Her legs tighten around his waist and she draws him in harder with her heels digging into the small of his back, driving him forward. Illya moves along with her pulling, driving his hips forward, crashing into her as his hands braced on either side of her head on the mattress. His fingers dig into the blankets and he watches the way her brow furrows as she loses herself in the feel of him. Gaby’s hands circle his arms, she squeezes his forearms and holds to him like he’s all she has in the world. Her legs tighten around his waist and she pulls him in closer, begging for him to come closer as she tilts her head back against the blankets. He obliges her, leaning in and slants his mouth over hers. He swallows her moan as he rocks harder against her pleas. 

He loses himself in the feel of her. 

Illya’s tongue darts along her own and she swallows against him. Her hips arch against his and he knows she’s close by the way her body twists against the mattress. Gaby twitches under his fingers as he presses a palm over her chest and drags his fingers down the length of her body. She shivers under his touch, breaking their kiss when his fingers drag over her clit. The mechanic under him moans and her eyes are shut tightly as she jerks against him while he shoves her over the proverbial edge. It doesn’t take Illya much longer, he’s in love with the woman under him and the way she feels against him. He wants the daylight to come and spill through the windows just to make maps of her new marks and scars. He hardly recognizes her anymore. In Rome she was soft with mechanics hands, but here she is someone new. Illya moves his hands down to her legs and he pulls her harder against him before he spills over the edge and he collapses against her shoulder. His forehead presses into the crook of her neck and he is panting against her skin, tongue darting out to taste the salt on her skin as her arms wound around him. She holds him tightly against her body. 

Gaby’s calloused hands stroke along the back of his head and down along the back of his neck in slow smoothing strokes. She holds onto him as they settle. She feels his lips press along her throat. It’s slow and easy between them now, there’s no words between them. Just soft strokes and gentle kisses as her fingers circle around scars along his shoulders. He stays between her legs, holding to her as they settle into a silence. The air around them is heavy with unspoken words and Gaby’s hands never cease their movements. He mutters something Russian against her skin. It sounds like a term of endearment and Gaby smiles lazily as the first rays of sunlight splash through the curtains of the hotel room. Neither one of them fall asleep just yet. They soak up the little time they have together as the sky outside starts to lighten.Napoleon never made his reappearance, and the two of them are thankful for the peace in the room as Illya shifts them over, pulling the small mechanic onto his chest and letting his hand trail through her dark hair. It’s a soothing motion he can recall from his childhood, the same way his mother would comfort him. 

“Illya,” Gaby whispers softly against his chest as his hand keeps up the soft movements. She relaxes against him, exhaling as her body goes limp from exhaustion. Her muscles are tired and she’s left feeling warm and sated against him, but it doesn’t stop her from questioning him, “What are we going to do now?” 

Her words surprise him a little but he doesn’t let it show as his hand keeps up the slow movement. He lets his legs curve over hers and he lets his other hand sling over the small of her back, “We do what we have to do.” He repeats his words with her earlier, hands stroking down her back before he pulls the blanket up and around them. Gaby turns her head up and peers up at him through her lashes.

“To survive?” The question leaves her lips carefully and cautiously, like she almost doesn’t want to hear his answer. He can hear the slight hesitation in her voice. 

“To survive.” He confirms pulling her up and kissing her lazily, he holds onto her softly and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when she kisses him back. It’s not an apology for his past, but it’s a step in a better direction for the two of them. 

They’ll survive this and the next thing thrown at them. They’re both agents in a dangerous situation with one another. Gaby’s mind still lingers on the file with Illya’s blacked out history, but she knows he won’t hurt her. It doesn’t change all the things he’s done wrong but, the past can’t be changed and Gaby knows this. She knows it even as she snuggles down against his side with her fingers smoothing out over his chest. Her eyes flutter shut as she soaks up his body heat, “We’ll get through this right?” 

Illya’s answer to her surprises her, “One day Chop Shop Girl.” He folds into that old nickname as he exhales against her, “One day we will.” 

He doesn’t fool her with any sort of false promise that things will change instantly. Nothing in their world is instant except death and neither of them will accept that fate. Gaby’s hand curls against his chest and Illya stretches his own out to meet her fingers. He tangles their hands and holds her close to him, willing his eyes to close. She eventually settles against him and sleep steals both of them away. When the late morning settles in they’ll get up and finish their mission like the professionals they are. They’ll return to U.N.C.L.E. for a new mission and the cycle will repeat itself until they’re ready to survive-- to break away from their respective agencies and start something between them. It won’t be easy. Gaby may be able to leave on a clean break, but they both know Illya will not be let go of easily. He will be labeled a traitor, he will have a death sentence over his head, but most of all he will have Gaby with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be continuing this on, but please feel free to drop by my inbox/tumblr for future Gallya work. I'm very happy to have finished this fic and hope to work on my other ones soon. Any mistakes are my own, I was way too impatient to wait on anyone to edit this because I'm terrible like that. Feel free to join me @wondervvomen or @imaginegallya, I will always take prompts and all your comments/feedback is amazing. Thank you all for being supportive.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a mod on the tumblr blog: @imaginegallya, and this prompt came through and I knew it needed to be continued on! There will only be three chapters to this little piece and that was after everyone has begged for a continuation from Illya's side, I promise there will be a nice wrap up. Thank you all for your amazing support. Feel free to follow us at @imaginegallya for more Illya/Gaby ficlets and myself @wondervvomen.


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